Just this past August, I found myself sitting on a park bench in Iceland with a pool of neon green vomit between my legs.

It all started when I was in the 8^th grade. As a 4-foot 11-inch kid with lousy hand/eye coordination I had little chance for success in basketball, football, or baseball, the big three that guaranteed social status. But I did have hustle and grit. Maybe that’s why I was selected to run the mile with Ralph Solomon, in the city-wide track meet.

Every Wednesday during PE, my crusty yellow jersey would crawl out of my locker and onto my scrawny body. I’d tighten up my Chuck Taylor’s, and with the rest of the class, run four laps around the track. One mile each week! That was my training.

But on the day of the big race, I knew to fuel up on Cap n’ Crunch and frosted Pop Tarts. And at the sound of the starting gun, I shot to the front of the pack like a sugar-crazed rabbit. At the end of the first lap, I’m in first place, ahead of Ralph Solomon, who’d become a wolf chasing its prey. The crowd was going wild. There must’ve been 50 people in the bleachers, including my mom!

But all that cheering confused me. Had I already run the four laps? …Mr. Rafaelli had coached me to finish strong, so I sprinted across what I believed to be the finish line and slowed to a walk. When the pack passed me by, I had to shift back into high gear to catch up with them.

At the end of the second lap, my mom shouts, “Keep going Fred. Don’t stop this time!” So I increase my speed knowing the other runners would suffer as they tried to match my blistering pace.

At the end of the third lap… I run out of steam, and The Wolf with his long ropy muscles is gonna to pass me. My mind begins racing faster than my legs. I could fall, fake an ankle break. That would garner all sorts of attention. Or I could keep running and accept my lot in life as a middle-of-the-packer.

But Ralph roars, “Come on Fred! We. Got This!” And I get all emotional. That word “we” reverberating in my ears. So, I keep running, gasping, fighting back tears, and I take second place, right behind Ralph, winning the first ribbon of my life, a red one. It’s still tucked in my middle school yearbook.

…So, let’s get to that pool of green vomit… About a year ago: I’m badgering my son-in-law, Mario… to quit smoking. He tells me he switched to vaping, so it’s not as bad. After some back and forth, he challenges me to run a marathon with him if he gives up smoking and vaping. … knowing I swore off marathons years ago (they hurt too much). How could I say no?

…Well, I had to up my weekly mileage, and find some mojo which at 61 years of age, had begun to dissipate. We settle on the Reykjavik Marathon, and with just a little bribery, I get my wife, kids, and grandson to serve as crew.

On the day of the race, I enjoy a healthy breakfast: Three cups of Peet’s coffee, some homemade granola (cause I live in Berkeley), and a prophylatic-dose of Advil. At the sound of the starting gun, I…  shuffle across the starting line… I’m not trying to win; I just want to… not hurt myself. …Mario and I begin reeling in the miles, sharing electrolytes, encouragement.

…Everything’s perfect…until the dreaded 20-mile mark, when I start feeling nauseous. Too much green Gatorade? I urge Mario to keep going; finish strong! But the mensch is reluctant to leave me. I assure him I’m not going to die out there… Finally, he takes off… just like Ralph Solomon.

Well, I jog… (and walk) the final miles, making sure I got enough juice in the tank so I’ll appear strong and vibrant to my family…

A hundred yards to go, I feel sick to my stomach and someone’s pulling up beside me… Now I know it’s not Mario. His pink lungs carried him across the finish line 20 minutes ago! (I didn’t pass the torch to him; he snatched it from me!). …I look down and see my six-year-old grandson grinning up at me, reaching for my hand. And I start feeling all emotional, again…

You see, these fleeting moments can become… magical and meaningful, etched in your brain forever, when you have family or friends to support you… But after the race, I just needed a quiet place to sit down… and do some puking… There are some things in life you just gotta do by yourself.

The photo of my grandson squeezing my hand as he learned to hustle across a finish line is not in my middle school yearbook. It’s taped to my fridge where I see it each morning when I’m getting some milk for my coffee…

For the record, I took 879^th place (a middle of the packer!); Still, my mom was very proud of me.